


Aus Fleisch und Blut

by bringyourguns



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Fist Fights, Gen, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyourguns/pseuds/bringyourguns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The band is trying to produce a new album but tensions are running high, and the constant bickering between them is putting their future together in jeopardy. When a fight between Richard and Till becomes physical, they are forced to re-evaluate their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "We never got into physical fights, though twice we almost got there. Sometimes I actually wished it would come to it, because I believe that at times a good fist-fight can solve problems like in the Wild West." - RZK
> 
> My story was inspired by this quote, except in my version there is fist-fighting.

“It’s not going to work. It doesn’t fit the song,” Richard sighs, rubbing his temples with frustration.

The way Richard is pacing back and forth across the practice space is making Paul uncomfortable, and he knows he wasn’t the only one. Flake and Schneider watch him warily from behind the protective barrier of their respective instruments.

“You can’t tell just by looking at it. At least give it a chance,” Till responds.

His voice was eerily calm, expression neutral, but a storm had been brewing in his eyes for a while now. 

“You barely changed it since last time, so what’s the point?” Richard gestures impatiently at the piece of paper in Till’s hand.

Paul knows Till feels extremely vulnerable at times like these, when his lyrics are put on trial in front of the band, and unsurprisingly Richard’s rather callous approach isn’t going over well.

This is clearly a discussion best saved for another time. They are all tired, getting at each other’s throats after a full day of making hard decisions about their songs, and it is growing increasingly unlikely that this conversation will prove productive.

The tension in the room reminds Paul of one of their early gigs when they doused the club with gasoline. Any second now, an errant spark is liable to trigger a catastrophe. Nowadays it seems they are more careless with each other than they are with the pyro stuff.

“We’re not changing the music. You’re just going to have to fix the lyrics,” Richard insists. His tone is decidedly confrontational now, despite their pact as a band to have these discussions as diplomatically as possible.

He stops pacing and meets Till’s eyes, challenging him to disagree.

Paul eyes darted between them, unsure of what to say to calm the situation before it gets out of control. He sides with Till, but he knows better than to walk into this minefield. Throwing another opinion in the mix will only complicate things right now.

Richard’s attitude often seems to trigger disputes within the band. Paul wishes he would just shut up for once, but he wishes in vain.

Till leans forward on the couch, too agitated to let it rest now either.

“I’ve re-written this part dozens of times already. You’re never happy with it,” Till accuses Richard, throwing the sheet of paper to the ground.

“This isn’t about me,” Richard raises his voice, thin façade of civility crumbling. “We all talked about it before you got here, and that is what needs to be done!”

It isn’t entirely true. They had talked about it, but nobody had managed to agree about anything.

“You probably just bitched about it until everyone dropped it so that you’d shut up,” Till shoots back. Point for Till, Paul muses. That was essentially what happened.

“I’m not bitching, I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you won’t listen because you’re too easily offended!” Richard shouts at him.

“We don’t have to make this decision right now, we should talk about this later,” Ollie interjects, setting his bass down since their practice has apparently devolved beyond the point of return. It doesn’t look like either of them heard him, too focused on each other to respond to reason. 

“Don’t try to deny that you get a hard on when you think you’re calling the shots, Kruspe. You like to think you’re in charge of this band, but you’re not,” Till laughs.

It is a condescending laugh, intended to provoke Richard further. Paul knows it well. Gas on the fire, Till’s specialty.

“Don’t try to make this personal,” Richard bristles, taking a step toward Till. Till’s feigned amusement has the intended effect on him.

“Too late. There is nothing more personal than you needlessly ripping apart the things other people have written without giving them fair consideration,” Till replies in a dangerous voice, eyes narrowing.

“Well, I can just write it for you if you’re unable to do your job,” Richard glares back at him defiantly, crossing his arms. Paul cringes. There is no coming back from that one. They both certainly knew how to push each other’s buttons. 

“If you didn’t spend so much time lording over everyone, maybe you’d be better at your own shit. Why don’t you just worry about yourself?” Till growls.

Paul decides suddenly to try and defuse this before anything worse can come out of their mouths. It's already gone too far. As it stands now, they might not talk to each other for days, which will be a pretty big setback for them all.

“Let’s not do this,” Paul pleads, putting a hand on Richard’s shoulder to keep him from getting any closer to Till, whose expression is menacing now. Richard brushes his hand off without breaking eye contact with Till.

“Till needs to learn how to take constructive criticism,” Richard declares, taking another step toward him.

“Well then that’s something we have in common, isn't it?” Till laughs again, and Paul curses him silently. Paul knows quite well, from personal experience, that laughter is a highly effective weapon against Richard when he wants desperately to be taken seriously, and now Till is taking pleasure in riling him up further. 

“You have criticism for me? Let’s hear it then,” Richard sneers, squaring his shoulders.

Paul sighs. Dumb fuck has no idea how ironic the situation is.

Till stands up suddenly and takes a step toward Richard and the rest of the band freeze, bracing themselves for disaster. 

Please no, just please no, Paul chants internally.

“You can’t do my job, so you should show me some respect,” Till snarls, rolling up his sleeves.

“What is your job, exactly? Locking yourself in your room and sulking? Yeah, I probably couldn’t do that as well as you,” Richard challenges him.

“Your lyrics are amateur and boring, so I don’t need any advice from you,” Till growls, savouring the devastated look on Richard’s face.

Till makes a small gasp of surprise when Richard’s fist connects with his stomach and bends forward slightly as the air leaves his lungs, but his feet remained planted where they are. Paul honestly isn't sure who would win in a fight, but Till's disturbing ability to ignore pain is probably an advantage. He really doesn't want to find out, as much as it is satisfying to watch Till verbally take Richard down a few pegs.

“Woah, woah!” Paul shouts, stepping in between them with outstretched arms.

“Fuck off Paul,” Richard hisses, hands raised in preparation to defend against Till. Paul steps back, deciding in retrospect that he would rather they attacked each other than him.

“Is this what you want Richard?” Till snaps when he regains his breath.

“Till…” Flake murmurs in a warning tone. Till’s desire to retaliate is written all over his face, and he stands taller to intimidate Richard. His hands clench and un-clench furiously at his sides.

“Fuck you Till,” Richard spits, standing his ground.

“Fuck yourself, Richard. You’re a controlling asshole,” Till replies, leaning in toward him to taunt him.

Richard swings at him again, but this time Till is eager for it. He blocks Richard’s blow with his forearm and lands one of his own on Richard’s face. The sound sickens Paul and his mouth opens with surprise. He hadn't expected Till to go for the face. This is way out of hand.

Richard lets out a startled yelp of pain and stumbles backward, clutching his face. His brow furrows when he draws his hand away and he sees the blood on it. There is a steady stream of it rushing out of his nose.

He launches himself immediately at Till, shaking with fury, droplets of blood splattering on the ground at his feet with each step.

Till intercepts Richard skillfully, seizing one of his wrists and twisting it snugly behind his back in one fluid motion. Richard elbows him in the ribs with his other arm and they both fall to the floor as he struggles violently to break free from Till’s fierce grip. 

“Fuck this, I’m done,” Schneider rolls his eyes. He tosses his drumsticks down loudly and storms out of the practice space.

Richard manages to roll onto his side and takes another shot at Till’s midsection. Till grunts at the impact and pulls Richard’s trapped arm higher up his back in retaliation.

“Fuck! Get off me!” Richard cries out, thrashing underneath him.

When he kicks at Till, Till brings his forearm down on Richard’s throat, face twisted with anger. Richard makes a choked noise of pain at the crushing pressure on his neck and claws at Till’s forearm desperately with his free hand. Till’s arm becomes smeared with the blood from Richard's nose as they struggle.

Paul rushes in to stop them before one of them murders the other. This has gone more than far enough.

He grabs Till by the shoulders and hauls him backwards with all his strength. Ollie dashes to his side to assist. It is like pulling an angry pitbull away from something it had its heart set on killing. 

“Till, leave him!” Flake shouts. 

Till sits back on his haunches after they manage to separate the two, still poised to attack, teeth clenched with rage. Richard lies prone on his back on the floor breathing heavily through his mouth, one hand pinching his nose to stop the bleeding. The front of his shirt is splattered with his own blood.

Paul and Ollie stand between them nervously, preparing to prevent round two if necessary. Flake creeps over cautiously to inspect the damage once it seems like the fight has ended.

Ollie carefully guides Till toward the couch, away from Richard, with a hand on his back. Till is limping slightly. Paul isn’t sure if it is Till’s bad knee acting up or if Richard had worsened the old injury in the scuffle.

“You never know when to shut the fuck up, Richard, but you're gonna learn,” Till growls, dusting off his pants.

“Come on, that’s enough already,” Ollie tells Till as they sit down together. He looks worried, rightfully so, that the words will trigger Richard again.

Till smirks, rubbing the red knuckles of the hand he’d used to punch Richard, and Paul bites his lip. If Till hurt his hand, that didn’t bode well for Richard’s face, or for the band. Who knows how much practice time they will lose now, while they struggle to recoup from this immature blowout.

Paul stoops down to assess Richard’s condition, out of necessity more than pity. His anger at Richard’s stupidity softens into concern when he sees his face up close. His left eye is already darkening and beginning to swell shut and his teeth are bloody from the steady stream that flooded his mouth while he was laying on his back.

“Shit, he got you pretty good,” Paul observes quietly, carefully pulling Richard’s hand away from his face so he can inspect his nose. At first Richard tenses at the contact, but he reluctantly accepts it.

“Is it broken?” Flake asks, leaning over him to have a closer look.

“I-I don’t think so,” Richard replies shakily. He groans, struggling to sit up, and collapses back to the floor. He looks stunned by what happened, now that the adrenaline of the fight has subsided.

Till laughs quietly from the couch and all of them turn to glare at him. 

Paul offers Richard a hand to help him up and he takes it, rising slowly to his feet. 

Richard stands there for a moment, staring at Till with a wild look on his face, and for a second Paul worries he is stupid enough to initiate the fight again, but then he turns suddenly and stomps toward the door.

“Fuck you, Till,” Paul hears him shout, the door slams, and moments later car tires squealed out of the driveway.

Panic grips Paul when it occurs to him that Richard shouldn’t be driving in this condition, but there is nothing he can do now, so he stands there helplessly, staring at his other band members in disbelief.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the door slams behind Richard, Till visibly relaxes, sinking into the couch. A sullen look settles on his face, head hung low.

He looks more upset than physically hurt, but there is no way to know with Till. He probably wouldn’t complain if he were injured.

“You alright?” Ollie asks, rubbing his shoulder.

“Of course,” Till replies easily, without looking up.

“What about your leg?” Paul asks, joining them. He perches sideways on the armrest of the couch.

“Just leaned on it wrong, it’s fine,” Till replies, reaching absently for his bad knee.

Noticing the blood smeared on his arm for the first time, he licks a finger and wipes at it, and then licks his finger again to clean it off.

“Well, I suppose that’s it for the day,” Flake smirks gloomily, glancing over at them from across the room as he gathers up his stuff in preparation to leave.

“I guess so. What a disaster,” Paul shakes his head.

“Bound to happen,” Till murmurs.

“Probably could have been handled better,” Ollie raises an eyebrow at Till.

“He came at me! What was I supposed to do? He is lucky I restrained him, instead of simply beating him to death,” Till raises his voice, tensing under the hand on his shoulder. Ollie removes it quickly.

“I know. But you hit him in the face pretty hard,” Ollie says softly.

“Not as hard as I wanted to,” Till mutters.

“This just made everything worse. It’s probably going to be ages before we can practice again,” Paul rubs his neck, exasperated.

“Good,” Till huffs, examining his swollen knuckles. “I don’t want to see him.”

“No, it’s not ‘good’. All of this bullshit has got to stop,” Flake says, pulling on his jacket. “We all need to figure out how to get along before this band goes to shit.”

“Richard is the problem,” Till replies dismissively.

“Not helpful,” Flake looks at him sternly. 

“Everything that comes out of his mouth makes me want to smash his skull,” Till growls.

“I know the feeling,” Paul sighs, looking at Till. “But we’ve got to fix this somehow.”

Till doesn't reply, he just stares angrily at his lap.

“I guess I’ll see you whenever this blows over,” Flake sighs.

And with that, he turns to leave. 

The room fell silent for a moment. It feels peaceful for the first time all day.

“I hope Reesh isn’t too badly hurt,” Ollie says, trailing off when Till turns his head sideways to glare at him.

“Oh, come on. Shouldn’t someone check on him?” he adds, looking at Paul for support.

“He can take a punch,” Paul laughs. “It’s something you have to get good at when you’re a mouthy asshole.”

Till smirks.

Ollie stares expectantly at both of them, waiting for a serious answer.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t handle any more of him today,” Paul sighs, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Fine, I guess I’ll see if I can get a hold of him, just to check in,” Ollie shrugs.

“As long as I don’t have to be the one to do it, go for it,” Paul agrees.

Till doesn't protest. He is calm enough now to understand that Ollie is just trying to look out for the band.

Ollie rises from the couch and begins to fish around in his jacket pocket for his cellphone. When he finds it, he dials Richard and holds the phone to his ear, tapping his fingers apprehensively on his thigh.

“No answer,” he informs them after a tense moment, looking down at his phone, unsure of what to do next. “Guess we’ll just have to wait until he cools off.” 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a fucking drink,” Paul proposes, rising from the couch with renewed purpose.

“Same,” Till replies.

“Yeah. Why not,” Ollie agrees.

\-----

Richard stomps on the gas pedal, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly, the other raising a cigarette to his lips incessantly. It is his second in a row.

His left eye is throbbing. It is hard to see out of it because of the swelling, and his shoulder aches from having his arm tugged in an unnatural direction by Till.

His whole body is still vibrating with rage. Till’s cruel comments and obnoxious laughter echoe over and over in his head.

He can’t stop thinking about Till’s remark about his lyrics, in particular. Till had taught him, encouraged him, and even praised him for his writing before. Was that all just a lie?

He yanks the steering wheel to the right, taking a corner faster than he should have, and the car fishtails, leaving black marks on the pavement behind him. He tries to calm himself, but it isn't working.

He begins to think of things he wished he’d said to Till, things he knows would really cut him. He curses himself for always thinking of the best responses when it is too late.

He is angry at himself for losing a fight in front of everyone. Till had taken advantage of his restraint and made him look like a fool. If he had been serious about causing him pain, Till would have been the one on the floor, he feels sure of it.

He allows himself to entertain the fantasy of quitting the band as he speeds recklessly down the road. He could just pick up the phone, right now, and tell them it was over. It would be even more insulting if he did it over the phone, like a shitty breakup. A nasty grin spreads over his face at the thought.

He looks over at his phone on the passenger seat, noticing a missed call from Ollie.

Fuck off. All of them can just fuck off.

He tries to imagine what would happen if he quit. Till would pretend he didn’t care, pretend he had better things to do with his life, but inside he would be furious. That fury would eventually mellow into depression. He would fall apart privately. He hardly needed excuses to be depressed as it stood now. 

Dismantling the band would be devastating. He knows they wouldn’t carry on without him, they had talked about it before. It would all be over.

But Richard also knows that without the band he would be lost too. He is nothing without them. He lets out a growl of frustration at the damning realization. He can’t fuck over Till without fucking over himself. He needs this stupid band, perhaps more than any of them. He is trapped in this fucking mess for life.

But what would happen if he told Till he quit, just to fuck with him? Just to get a reaction out of him.

A small, reasonable voice in the back of his head is alarmed by the idea. 

Better to sleep it off and approach the band again when he is calm. Fix things, instead of making them worse. Be mature. He knows that voice is right, it usually is.

But it would feel so good to deliver such a lethal ‘fuck you’. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

Richard has always been bad at suppressing the terrible urges he has when he is angry.

\-----

"Three tequilas”, Till says tersely, gesturing to Paul, Ollie and himself, who are seated at a semi-secluded table in the pub.

“You got it,” the waitress replies.

“Thank you,” Paul smiles at her extra enthusiastically to make up for Till's cold demeanour.

The waitress makes her way to the bar to fetch them.

“Where did Schneider go, anyway?” Ollie asks.

“He went home. I texted him an invite, but he’s had enough of us for the day,” Paul shrugs.

“Understandable,” Ollie replies, periodically gazing down at the phone in his lap for any news from Richard.

“Maybe we should just scrap that song entirely,” Paul muses, looking up at Till to gauge his reaction.

“The song isn’t the problem, it’s us. And if we scrap this song, it’ll just happen again with something else,” Till says wearily, running a hand through his hair.

“Then what can we do?” Paul asks.

“I wish I could just write the lyrics without any interference,” Till replies, eyes lowered.

He pauses for a moment, but he looks like he had more to say, so Paul waits, allowing him to gather his thoughts. He knows Till needs to speak without being interrupted, like he had been all day.

“I always have to please everybody, and so often my ideas get thrown under the bus. I'm sick of it,” Till continues.

“I know, but it’s like that for all of us. That is the joy of democracy!” Paul replies jokingly. Till doesn't find it funny.

“Fucking Richard always has to throw his two cents in, every single time, even when he has nothing useful to say. I swear he makes me revise things just so he can be the one to have the final say,” Till grumbles.

“It does seem that way a lot,” Paul agrees.

“That’s just how he is,” Ollie shrugs. "We all have our moments."

“Well, it’s fucking annoying, and it’s impossible for me to be creative around him,” Till says, anger edging back into his tone.

The waitress appears again by their table with a tray and places a shot of tequila in front of each of them.

“Enjoy!” she exclaims. She is about to leave, but then she looks at Till again, studying his face curiously.

“Hey, aren’t you the guy from that band?” she asks him.

“No,” Till replies, with no trace of humour.

“Oh… Okay,” she replies, and saunters off looking confused.

Paul shoots Till a disparaging look. Till, unfazed, reached for his shot.

“Prosit,” Till toasts half-heartedly, raising his shot glass. They downed them together.

Till takes a deep breath, eyes closed, savouring the burn in his throat from the liquor.

“What if we talk to Reesh to see if we can get him to lay off you a bit?” Ollie suggests.

“I’m sure he’d take that well, knowing him,” Till scoffs.

“Well, we have to do something,” Ollie insists.

“Do whatever you want. But if I talk to him right now, he’s going to pick another fight, and he’s used up all of my patience for today already,” Till replies.

“I think we all need a bit of space before we can talk about this calmly,” Paul tells him.

Ollie nods in agreement.

“I just want to spend some time alone in a cabin in the woods somewhere. Somewhere where I can think. Maybe do some hunting. I think I need a break from this before I go crazy,” Till sighs.

“That sounds nice,” Ollie replies. "But we gotta finish this album."

“If Richard gets his shit together and comes back to find out you’ve gone on vacation, we’ll have a whole other problem on our hands,” Paul says darkly.

“Richard this, Richard that,” Till slams a fist down on the table and a couple sitting at a table near them looked over at them nervously.

Till’s phone buzzes just then, startling him out of his rage, and he digs it out of his pocket. He looks down at it, eyes scanning the text, expression unreadable.

The others look at him anxiously, waiting for his reaction.

“That fucking bastard! I'm going to kill him.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Was that Reesh? What did he say?” Ollie asks, leaning over to steal a glimpse of Till’s phone.

“Of course it’s him. Unless there are other people Till wants to kill… Till?” Paul chuckles nervously.

Till doesn't reply. He slams his phone down on the table and glares at it as if it is somehow responsible.

“Till?” Paul waves a hand in front of his face.

“Tell us!” Ollie demands.

“He said ‘I quit’,” Till replies finally, voice dark with a mixture of emotions.

“As in, quit the band?” Ollie asks with disbelief.

“I guess. That’s all he said,” Till says, looking up at them finally.

“That’s stupid. He doesn’t mean it,” Ollie says, shaking his head.

“That’s so fucking typical! He’s trying to cause even more drama,” Paul complains.

“If he wants out, he can say that to our faces instead of sending a pussy text message,” Till declares, standing up suddenly. His chair clatters behind him, nearly toppling over.

The nervous couple seated nearby are eyeing them again suspiciously.

“Till, just leave it. He’s trying to provoke you,” Paul tries, gesturing for Till to sit down again.

“Well it worked. We’re going to straighten this out right now,” Till replies, jaw set.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ollie warns, looking at Paul for backup.

“He’ll think better of it once he’s finished his hissy fit. Please, just ignore it for now. We can sort this out later,” Paul tries to persuade him. 

Till doesn’t look persuaded. He swipes his phone from the table and stomps over to the bar.

“Give me a shot of something,” he tells the bartender, who looks startled. He nods and swiftly begins fixing his order.

Paul rushes to his side. Till’s eyes are frigid, mouth a hard line.

“You’re not going to see him right now, are you? You’re going to make things worse. Come, sit down with us,” Paul pleads.

Till waits wordlessly for his drink. When it is placed in front of him, he slaps a bill on the counter. He quickly tips it back into his mouth, slams the shot glass down with unnecessary force, and turns to leave the pub.

“Wait!” Paul calls after him, but it is no use trying to stop Till when he decides he is going to do something.

 

\--

 

Till bangs his fist on the door to Richard’s place. 

He isn’t sure if he is there, but it is a good place to start. He listens intently to see if he can hear him on the other side of the door.

He knows Paul is right about Richard trying to provoke him, but knowing it doesn't change the fact that it is working. 

The flippant text message about quitting the band struck a nerve. How dare he hold something like that over everybody. What an immature way to win a stupid argument. 

He can’t let him throw the whole band into limbo just to get some kind of petty revenge.

Till promises himself he will keep calm for everybody’s sake, but he knows Richard will make that as difficult as possible. His quick temper and stubborn pride are a constant nuisance.

He half hopes there will be no answer, that fate will get him out of this mess somehow, since his self-restraint is failing him.

When the door finally swings open it catches him off guard.

Richard has a stony look on his face. His left eye is starting to bruise badly and he squints out of it bitterly at Till. He had cleaned the blood off himself and changed his shirt. 

Till feels a twinge of guilt, faced with the damage he had inflicted on his friend. It looks painful. He hates resorting to violence, but Richard has always been an expert at pushing him over the edge.

“You looking for round two, or what?” Richard glowers at him, making no move to allow him inside.

“No, I just want to talk,” Till replies, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

“I said it’s over. What the fuck else do you want?” Richard snaps. 

Till refuses to be intimidated.

“I’m coming in,” he says, attempting to push the door open with one hand.

“No. Anything you want to say, you can say it right here, and then you can leave,” Richard replies, refusing to budge.

“Just like that, you’re going to throw everything away over this stupid fight?” Till asks.

“Are you deaf?,” Richard taunts, voice dripping with venom.

Till launches himself at Richard without warning, seizing the front of his shirt, and they stumble through the doorway together. The door bounces off Till’s shoulder as he bursts past it, and Richard nearly trips over his feet as Till forces him backward.

He slams Richard up against the wall and pins him, hands fisted tightly in the fabric of his shirt. Richard exhales sharply when his back hits the hard surface behind him. 

“You stubborn asshole!” Till shouts, inches from his face, but Richard doesn’t flinch.

“Get off me!” he yells back, giving Till’s shoulders a forceful shove.

Till staggers back several steps, but he doesn't let go, pulling Richard with him. Richard grips Till’s wrists tightly and twists, trying to free himself without destroying his shirt.

“Let go!” he demands.

“You’re not quitting the band,” Till tells him, shaking him slightly for emphasis. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” Richard snarls, shifting his stance so Till can’t throw him off balance again. His grip on Till’s wrists is crushing but Till holds on fiercely.

“You’re being stupid,” Till says, trying to control the volume of his voice, but it is rising again involuntarily.

“So are you! You really thinking coming here to yell at me is going to help things?” Richard replies indignantly.

It is a fair point. Disappointed that he had lost control so quickly, Till re-evaluates his approach. He releases Richard and lowers his fists, taking a deep breath. 

Richard scowls at him, straightening his shirt.

“You wanted me to come here. That’s why you texted me,” Till says flatly, staring him down. "You just can't get enough, can you?"

“No. I texted you because you’re the reason I quit. I thought you should know first,” Richard smirks. Till wants badly to hit him again, right in that smug mouth.

“You don’t want to quit. You just want me to beg you to come back. I know you. This is some kind of stupid game,” Till accuses him.

“As much as I’d probably enjoy seeing you beg, I’ve already made up my mind,” Richard retorts.

“You better stick with this band because nobody else on earth would put up with all your childish bullshit,” Till laughs.

He knows as soon as he utters the words that he has destroyed any chance of an easy reconciliation, but they tumbled so freely and easily from his lips that he hadn’t a chance to stop them.

“Just get out,” Richard demands, pointing to the door.

“No,” Till replies firmly. “We are fixing this.”

“Get out, or I--“

“I don’t want to fight you,” Till cuts him off, baring his palms as a gesture of peace. “I came here to talk some fucking sense into your thick head.”

“Fuck you. I’m done talking,” Richard snaps.

“Well that’s a first. Never thought I’d see the day."

Till sees Richard’s fist hurtling toward him out of his peripheral vision, but he isn’t able to duck out of the way of in time. A hard set of knuckles grazes the side of his face, leaving a throbbing pain in their wake. He winces, mouth opening with surprise.

Richard’s whole body looks tensed, fists balled, poised to strike again. This is not going well.

“Quit acting so crazy,” Till growls.

“What did you think would happen if you came here?” Richard replies. "After what you did."

“I was hoping you’d realize what a fucking idiot you’re being!” He realizes that was the wrong thing to say. It seems obvious, now that it is too late.

“You’re the one who just barged into my place uninvited! Take a fucking hint, asshole!” Richard shouts back.

“Calm down, right n-ungg!” 

A fist slams into his jaw before he can finish his sentence. His teeth collide together from the impact, catching his tongue between them, and a well of coppery blood erupts in his mouth.

The hot burst of pain and the taste of blood awaken something primal in his brain that takes over his body before his better judgement can kick in, and he feels himself rushing at Richard full force, using his weight to send them both crashing to the floor.

Richard topples backward, legs splayed, and his head smacks the floor with a thump that leaves him momentarily dazed.

Till’s bad knee hits the floor hard and he falls over onto his hip when a bolt of pain shoots up his leg but he recovers quickly, climbing on top of Richard to subdue him while he has the chance.

Till tries to capture his arms but a pair of strong hands shoot up and close around his throat before he can grab them, fingers digging in viciously.

“Reesh, stop---“ Till chokes out through clenched teeth.

“Fuck you! I told you to get out! You should have listened,” Richard hisses, nostrils flared. His arm muscles are rigid, intent on doing damage.

Till seizes Richard’s hands and pries the fingers from his neck one by one with great difficulty, gritting his teeth. He manages to pin one of Richard’s wrists to the floor by his head, but the other quickly clenches into a fist and cracks him in the temple.

White sparks burst behind his eyes and his head whips to one side, face scrunched with pain, but his grip on Richard’s wrist only tightens in response, strengthened by his anger. His chest feels tight with rage, and it takes all of his willpower to resist the furious urge to knock Richard in the face in kind.

Richard tries to swing at him again but Till snatches the fist out of the air and slams it to the ground.

Richard’s shoulders lift from the floor as he tries to struggle free, bucking under Till to throw him off balance, but Till’s hold on him is secure. He uses his knees to block Richard’s legs from gaining leverage. 

Richard tries to headbutt Till out of desperation, but he tilts his head back out of range just in time.

“Enough!” Till roars. 

Richard’s eyes are thin dark crescents below his furrowed brow, teeth bared like a feral animal, and there is a fine sheen of sweat on his face. Till knows he'll receive another punch if Richard manages to break free.

“I fucking hate you!” he seethes, heels scraping uselessly against the ground as he tries to gain purchase.

“No you don’t,” Till looks down at him steadily, crushing him against the floor. Richard’s body feels hot against his, and his shirt is damp with sweat. He can feel the frantic pounding of his heart against his chest.

“Get off!” he demands, and attempts to heave Till off again with every muscle in his body. Till almost loses his balance, but he quickly shifts his legs to a more stable position.

“Not until you calm down,” he resolves.

Richard growls with frustration and tries to jerk his arms away again, struggling with renewed fury. Till adds pressure to the straining wrists trapped under his hands. He knows he is probably hurting Richard now, but it is the very least he deserves. He is impressed by his own restraint.

Richard’s movements began to slow gradually. Till has a slight weight advantage and the convenience of a superior position and he capitalizes on it to the fullest extent.

Till feels his head begin to clear. He eases some of the pressure off Richard's wrists, but his grip remains firm in case it is a bluff.

“Are you done?” Till asks.

Richard doesn’t reply. He looks up at Till with a pained expression, unwilling to admit defeat. His cheeks are flushed from the struggle, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, breath coming in ragged open-mouthed pants. Till can feel the hot puffs of air against his neck and they send a shiver up his spine.

This is what he looks like after a good fuck.

The unwelcome thought catches Till off guard and he shifts uncomfortably, willing it away, but it is too late.

“Till, what the fuck?” Richard’s eyes widen and he stills completely underneath him.

Till realizes he has started to become hard against Richard’s thigh, and Richard has definitely noticed, judging by his expression. He cringes, cursing his traitorous body for its terrible timing.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, averting his gaze.

“Are you enjoying this?” Richard asks incredulously.

“I don’t know,” Till shakes his head, face glowing with embarrassment.

He wants desperately to get up, but he is worried if he does he will be attacked again – perhaps with more fervour than before, given this new development.

“You’re really messed up,” Richard splutters, hands clenching under Till’s grip.

Till quickly decides he would rather risk being attacked again then endure another moment in this incriminating position with Richard berating him.

He releases Richard and rises hurriedly to his knees, adjusting his pants to hide his arousal, even though he knows it is pointless now.

Richard scrambles out from under him and sits up, posture stiff with surprise.

“Way to make things weird,” he murmurs, looking at Till sideways as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with his shirt.

Till swallows nervously. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, and so he doesn't try.

Richard's brows are drawn together with confusion as he slowly processes the situation.

Till wants a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him.


	4. Chapter 4

“What was that?” Richard asked slowly, reaching nervously for his cigarettes on the table behind him.

“You’re an adult. You know perfectly well what it was,” Till replied irritably, rolling his eyes.

“No, I—“ Richard blushed. “That's not what I meant.”

Till averted his gaze and began to pull at the loose fibers around the hole in the knee of his jeans, a frown creasing his brow. He plucked one of them and flicked it, and it floated gently to the ground. If Till had laser eyes, Richard was sure he would have zapped it out of the air. If Till had laser eyes, there would probably be a hole in his chest. It was a good thing he didn't have laser eyes.

Richard began to think he wasn’t going to get a response. He cleared his throat, preparing to elaborate on his question but finally Till looked up at him, a guarded mask of indifference firmly in place.

“I haven’t been laid in a while, I guess. No need to make it into a big deal,” he shrugged.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. Till was a bad liar. Those eyes always gave him away. There was something more to it.

Richard extracted a cigarette from his pack and placed one between his lips. He dipped the end of it into the flame of his lighter, trying to hide the shake in his hands from the adrenaline still buzzing in his system.

He held the pack out to Till automatically. 

Till stared at it blankly, puzzled by Richard’s unexpected hospitality, but then a hand reached up cautiously to accept one.

“Sure. Thanks,” he mumbled.

Richard leaned sideways and lit it for him and then pocketed the lighter.

They sat in tense silence for a few moments, smoking and avoiding eye contact. Richard waited for Till to speak first, but he remained stubbornly silent. Richard could never win this game against him. Finally he couldn't take it anymore.

“Are you attracted to me?” he asked carefully. The words felt heavy in his mouth, like the weight they held was physical.

Till tensed noticeably at the question and his eyes flicked to the side anxiously. He looked like he hadn’t been expecting Richard to want to delve further into the topic.

His cheeks hollowed as he took an extra long drag of his cigarette and exhaled a big cloud of smoke slowly, biding his time before he spoke.

Richard waited expectantly, staring at him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about this,” Till said warily.

“I think we have to,” Richard countered.

“What good will it do?” Till replied darkly.

“I need to know,” Richard insisted.

"Why?"

"I just do."

“Just forget about it please,” Till said quietly.

“Answer my question.”

Till’s expression hardened, growing visibly annoyed by Richard’s prying.

“It’s been difficult being friends with you lately as it is. I don’t think it’s a good idea to complicate things any further,” he shook his head.

“So you are attracted to me then,” Richard stated, thinking about what that meant as the words left his mouth.

“I didn’t say that,” Till quickly protested, but Richard barely heard him as the realization sank in. If the answer was a simple “no”, then Till surely would have just said so. So it was true.

The information made his head hurt. Or maybe it was just the lump that formed when it collided with the floor. He wasn’t sure. He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray absently even though little ash had accumulated yet.

His mind was reeling with questions and there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Everything he thought he knew about their friendship was all twisted now, and there was no going back.

He had never seriously considered the possibility that Till was interested in men, despite his theatrical antics. Did that make him naive? Did the others know?

Till was objectively handsome. Richard had noted that fact immediately when they first met, and it had occurred to him many times since then. He wasn’t blind. But the thought of anything sexual transpiring between him and another man was way outside his comfort zone. 

And Till was not just any man, but one of his closest friends. The friend who had punched him in the face only hours ago, he thought bitterly. None of this made any fucking sense.

“I’m not into that kind of thing,” Richard said finally, realizing Till was staring at him, watching him think. He immediately felt stupid and wished he had said something else.

“I know that, Richard,” Till replied impatiently.

“I just wanted to... make sure you knew,” Richard continued.

“It’s abundantly clear, thank you,” Till muttered, picking at his jeans again.

“How am I supposed to deal with this information?” Richard wondered aloud. 

“You’re the one who wanted to talk about it,” Till spat angrily.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked, eyes searching Till’s face.

“No.”

"Why not?"

"Look at how you're acting. That's why."

“You know, that’s almost worse, in a way, that you weren't going to tell me. You were just going to keep this secret from me forever?” Richard blurted. It felt like a betrayal to find out by accident about this hidden side of Till.

“What the fuck do you want from me? I told you talking about this was a bad idea. Just drop it.” Till sighed.

“Why are you always such a dick to me if secretly you’re—“

“Stop.”

“How long?”

“I said stop. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me!” Richard exclaimed loudly. He felt childish afterward.

“Richard, this conversation is over and we are never, ever going to talk about this again,” Till snapped.

Richard crushed the end of his cigarette into the ashtray, anger rising in him again. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter anyway, since we’re no longer bandmates,” he muttered.

Till opened his mouth to say something and then decided against it. He rose to his feet unsteadily, glaring down at Richard, eyes bright with pain, jaw clenched with anger. Richard knew he had tested Till's limits multiple times today, but for the first time he was afraid he had gone too far.

For a second, Richard felt certain he was going receive a kick in the teeth, and he shrank back slightly. But then Till stooped to place a hand on his shoulder, strong fingers digging in painfully.

“That hurts. Stop it,” Richard demanded.

Till leaned in closer, right next to his ear, grip tightening further. Richard wanted to pull away but he felt frozen in place, hypnotized by Till's quiet rage.

“I don’t give a fuck if you hate me. You’re in this band whether you like it or not, and we’re going to make it work somehow,” he growled. "That's all there is to it. Do you understand?"

Richard didn't reply.

Till released him roughly, nearly sending him toppling backward. He straightened and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him. The bang echoed in Richard's head.

He let out the breath he had been holding and reached for his pack of cigarettes again, hands trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very different chapter partly written, but I decided to make everybody suffer some more. *shrug* The other stuff will definitely be injected later on.
> 
> Sorry for the short post, but I figured it would be better to get what I have out there so I don't sit around fussing over every word for an unnecessary amount of time.
> 
> More coming soon, I promise! Thanks once again for all the encouragement!


End file.
